Shannon keeps on going. “Charlie’s exhausted. He woke up early from his nap because somebody kept ringing the doorbell when I didn’t get there fast enough. You know how he hates the doorbell.” She flings it like an accusation.
I throw my hands up, exasperated. “How is that my fault? I wasn’t even here! I didn’t do anything.”
“You didn’t do anything,” she scoffs under her breath. “That’s right. You never do.”
My shoulders stiffen and it takes every ounce of my limited energy to bite my tongue. Keep your fucking cool.
Shannon leaves Charlie wailing in his high chair and grabs a manila envelope from the kitchen table.
Oh shit. My heart sinks to my stomach. I’ve seen an envelope like this before. Twice. First when Charlie’s father requested the paternity test and then six months ago when I got the first notice of an initial child custody hearing.
“You didn’t make Charlie’s father sign away any claim he had on his child when you told him you were pregnant,” Shannon says, “That’s what you didn’t do. You didn’t manage to get a good enough lawyer to keep such a so-called ‘father’ from getting joint custody even though he told you to,” she leans in and whispers the next word, “abort our precious baby, but suddenly two and a half years later decides he wants him. And now there’s another custody hearing in two months when he’s going to try to take our little boy away from us for good.” Tears rim her eyes. “What’s your excuse going to be then, huh?”
She spins and heads out of the room toward her home office. “I have work to do. Why don’t you do something out of the ordinary for once and be a mother?”
My hands curl so tightly into fists that my nails cut my palm. It’s only Charlie’s continued cries that make me force myself to take a deep breath.
In. Out. In. Out.
I can’t let my sister’s bitchiness or even that envelope on the table affect my time with my son. I knew it was just a matter of time before this stupid notice arrived.
I couldn’t understand it at first, when David’s lawyer first contacted me requesting a paternity test. A really stupid part of me hoped it meant David wanted us back. That he’d realized what a huge mistake he’d made. That his family was here waiting for him. Maybe he’d left his wife for real this time.
God, I don’t know how I had any naïveté left in me at that point, but seeing David and his lovely wife at the first custody hearing quickly remedied me of any lingering romanticism left in my soul.
They were vicious. They skewered my character, lied and said I’d never told David about the baby and made it clear that while their initial motion was for joint custody since he’d never had any contact with his son before, their intention was to push for full. Their lawyer was polished, well-spoken, presented point after point with utmost precision and made what were several very apparent inside jokes with the judge.
And my lawyer? He had a mustard stain on his shirt, had prepared me all wrong for the hearing, and only cared about getting the money in back child support—out of which his fees would come. David was only happy to pay (money I’d later find came from his wife’s trust fund). Two and a half years in back-child support should have been a Godsend. Except that the hospital bills for my C-Section and Charlie’s two day NICU stay ate up almost all of it. I had just enough left to mostly pay off the lawyer and that was that.
I look at my poor baby with his red face and the fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “Oh sweet baby,” I coo, my heart breaking. “What a mess.” I don’t just mean the food that’s all over his face and covering the tray in front of him.
God, Shannon doesn’t even know about the back-rent that’s due. She’d kill me if she knew I hadn’t been keeping up on my half of the payments. The little extra I did have I’d been giving Mr. Jenks-a-lot to bribe him not to tell Shannon about it. But he made it clear he won’t let me float another month. Dammit. It’s not like it would make a difference if Shannon had known all along—she doesn’t have the money either.
“It’s gonna be okay, baby,” I whisper to Charlie, hugging him close. “You need to eat a little more, but it’s been a rough day on both of us. How about some applesauce?”
“App-sas,” he repeats, his whimpering calming down slightly. “App-sas, app-sas.”
Some Mama-attention and sweet treats are always good for the soul. It’s a good thing he doesn’t know about chocolate yet.
Charlie does well with the applesauce. Bath turns into play time like always and, though there’s more whining than usual when he gets out, he falls asleep quickly and without much fuss. That’s always been my saving grace with Charlie—he’s a great sleeper.
When I close the door behind me and head to the kitchen, I’m less than thrilled to see my sister there making herself a sandwich. I head straight for the wine. I’ll be a little classier than straight vodka tonight. Besides, wine and chocolate together are like, a thing, right? In Europe or something? Well, it’s gonna be a thing in my kitchen tonight.
I reach up on top of the refrigerator where I keep my chocolate bars. I frown when I pull down just half of a Hershey’s. I know for a fact there were two full bars there yesterday. I turn and look accusingly at Shannon. “Did you eat my chocolate?”
She shrugs and turns her back as she spreads mayo on a slice of bread. “It was in the kitchen, I figure it’s fair game,” is her only response.
“But you know I buy it especially for when I have cravings.”
She shrugs again.
I bite my cheek and huff out a breath. It’s not worth getting into a fight over. It’s not worth getting into a fight over. If I repeat it enough times, I’ll start to believe it, right?
I unwrap what’s left of the bar and take a giant bite. The chocolate on my tongue makes me feel slightly better. At least until I reach for the bottle of wine. And see that it’s only half full.
“What the hell, Shannon?” I all but explode.
She finally turns around to look at me. “What?” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“Stop eating my chocolate and drinking my wine.”
“They didn’t have your name on them.”
It’s such a goddamned childish thing to say.
“What are we, nine-year-olds?”
Her jaw locks. “Apparently some of us live as if we were.” She nods toward the manila envelope on the table behind me that so far I’ve managed to avoid thinking about. “You live like a child, as if you don’t have any responsibilities.”
I step up to her, forefinger pointed at her chest. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I all but growl.
She smacks my finger away. “Don’t I? I’m the one who’s here, living with you and helping you raise your son because you’re the naïve idiot who got knocked up by her married professor. You actually thought he’d leave his wife for you?” She shakes her head.
Even after all this time, her words sting. Because I was exactly what she’s accusing me of. I was naïve. I was stupid.
I was officially a junior when I took David’s class, though it was my first year on a real campus. I transferred to Stanford with credits built up from AP classes and an accredited online college. It was unusual that I got in like that, but apparently my entrance essay won over the board—impoverished, small town beauty pageant girl dreams of studying computer science and becoming a robotics engineer.